


soldier, go bravely on

by MissFaber



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x06, Alternate Ending, Alternate Finale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Dany, Dark!Dany, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Guilt, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sad because they still could have had a not terrible ending and here is my version, Pol Jon, Pol!Jon, Pol-Jon, Political Jon, Redemption, Rewriting 8x06, Sacrificial Jon, Sacrificial!Jon, Season 8, Season Finale, a time for wolves, badass queen of my life sansa stark, everything is the same in the show except the finale, here ends the character assassination of Jon Snow, jon deserved better, just me rewriting 8x06, show finale, stark life, the endings they deserved, the finale we deserved, the pack survives, tried to make something out of the garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-13 04:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18933382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: King's Landing is ash. The game is revealed. Jon Snow faces the consequences of his choices. Daenerys Targaryen seeks subservience from all. Sansa Stark will not go quietly.Westeros hangs in the balance.+an alternate ending for Game of Thrones. 8.x06 fix-it fic





	1. mercy and ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so the ending of Game of Thrones was so terrible that it pulled me back into my teenage fic-writing ways. I don't think I've written fanfiction in six years or so but I'm back, bitches. 
> 
> This story wasn't beta'd so all errors are my own. Obviously I don't own GOT or make any profit from this story. (Do people still do these disclaimers?)
> 
> Enjoy and leave a kudos + review!

The smell of sulfur and rotting flesh is worse than anything he ever smelled, worse even than the pyres lit outside of Winterfell after the Night King was defeated. Jon didn’t think he would ever see so many bodies again in his life. Oh how wrong he was—they are everywhere, blurred by the gray softness of ash.

But the smell has nowhere to hide. It chokes him as he navigates the Northmen’s encampment outside the city walls. He staggers to a stop as a man who is more burnt flesh than skin walks towards him. Bile stings his throat.

“They need help,” Jon tells Davos, who stands beside him in a similar state. “We need Maesters.” At Davos’s scoff, he amends, “Anyone, anyone who can do a simple stitch.”

 A Northman in his path spits. “What they need is mercy!”

In one bound Jon collars the man before he can reach for his sword. “I am your commander,” he hisses. “You will follow my orders.”

“But the Queen—”

“The war is over.”

Jon takes a step back and surveys the Northern soldiers who have started to watch. As he scans their faces he thinks of the woman he saved from a soldier like these, from one of his men. Only one woman he’d managed to help, and she might have burned anyway. He doesn’t recognize them. He doesn’t recognize himself.

“Any man, woman, or child who survived this—this—” He swallows. “—will be under our protection. Any soldier will be a prisoner. They are not to be executed.”

Davos nudges him. Jon follows his gaze to where Tyrion is walking into the city. _Daenerys, Daenerys, Daenerys._ The grim expression on Davos’s face must mirror his own. Without a word, they follow.

The three stumble past rock and ash and decay. If Tyrion minds or even notices their presence, he says nothing. His eyes rove over the streets with a greediness despite the way his mouth is slightly open in horror or disbelief. Jon cannot look. If he sees any more than he’s already seen, his knees will give out. _You did this, you did this, you did this._

“I’ve seen her burn soldiers and ships.” Tyrion’s voice has a detached, dreamlike quality. “I’ve walked through dragonfire ashes before. But I have _never_ seen anything like this.”

“You told me to stop the attack if the bells rang,” Jon says. “If the city surrendered. Did you tell her?”

Tyrion’s eyes slip closed. “Yes.”

“And Grey Worm?”

“Love and loss and vengeance… they make people do terrible—”

 _“Loss?”_ Davos’s voice is raw. “I lost my son because of you. Your wildfire killed him right outside this city. I saw the flesh peeled from his bones.”

Davos ignores the way Tyrion’s face falls. “I didn’t murder anyone for it. Let alone an entire city.”

His voice wavers and Jon pulls his gaze to his friend. There are tears in his eyes, a scowl on his trembling mouth, and a small blackened and bloodied hand holding a small wooden horse at his feet.

“Let alone _children.”_

Jon cannot tear his eyes away from the small wooden horse, a toy in a child’s hand. He knows Davos’s heart is breaking again as he remembers the innocent child he’d loved and lost to fire. Jon thinks of Melisandre too, how he’d banished the woman who brought him back to life because he could not condone the burning of children. He remembers the person he’d been then, a man strong enough to issue a just sentence. A less complicated man who didn’t have to bargain with dragons. He remembers Daenerys’s soft, supple body in his arms and he wants to _die,_ wants to turn his body inside out and cleanse her from his skin.

“Wildfire is nothing compared to this,” Davos says. “The mad king’s wildest dreams were nothing compared to what _your queen_ did in a single—”

“Davos.” Jon forces his voice to be hard. “She’s our queen.”

Davos’s mouth clicks shut. Tyrion meets Jon’s eyes and gives him a small nod. “I’ll find you later.”

As soon as the small silhouette is out of sight, Davos fumes, “I saw you order the retreat. I saw you sheath your sword. Do you mean to tell me you still—”

Jon presses a finger to his lips, his eyes darting around the deserted street. “It’s not safe.”

Davos’s eyes fall down to the small wooden horse. “No, it isn’t. It never is. Not with evil fire women about.”

Jon tears his eyes away from the toy and the breath leaves his body. _Arya._

Arya is standing to his right, covered in a thin layer of ash. A ghost. But there are rust stains of blood on her shoes and her hands. Mottled blood coats one side of her head, and his hand stutters towards the wound.

She is staring at the toy, too. She chokes out, “I tried to save her.”

“What happened to you?” His voice is hoarse like he hasn’t used it in days. “Gods, why are you _here?”_

His panicked thoughts stutter through his brain at the speed of his quickening heartbeat. Arya was _here,_ in King’s Landing, while Daenerys rained down fire from the sky. His stomach churns. He sees red. She could have killed his sister.

“I came to kill Cersei,” she says. “I thought I could save everyone.”

“You shouldn’t have come here. Everything I did— you were supposed to stay away.”

Arya’s round eyes harden. “Do you think anywhere in the world is safe from her? When she can climb on a dragon’s back and be in Winterfell in days?”

Sickening images run through his mind, images that aren’t new to him. Winterfell melted down by dragonfire. This is why he drew her away, this is what he’d been hoping to avoid. How futile it all was.

Arya tugs her arm out of his grasp; he wasn’t aware he was holding her. His heart drops.

“Where are you going?”

She glares at him. Her lips press together.

“Tell me. You don’t have to go it alone.”

When she starts to back away from him his mind scrambles for anything to convince her. “What did father used to say? The lone wolf dies, but—”

“ _Don’t_ say it.”

Jon is surprised at the way her fists clench at her sides, at the visible anger in every line in her body.

“When have you trusted us?” Her voice is mixed anger and hurt. “We told you your queen was dangerous.”

He searches the street for eavesdroppers. He can only see Davos, watching their exchange. “Arya,” he says in a low voice. “Be careful.”

A curious expression wipes the anger from her face and she follows his gaze. “There’s no one around. I’d know.” She starts to pace in a languid circle. “Do you see what she is now?”

Jon feels a muscle in his jaw jump as he presses his lips together. She responds with a delighted, knowing look. _Gods,_ what does she see in his face?

“How long have you known?” she asks.

 _Please don’t say it out loud._ “Arya.”

“Was it ever real?”

When Jon huffs through his nose she lifts her own. “That’s alright. I have all the answers I need.” Disappointment colors her voice. “You should have trusted us. You should have trusted Sansa.”

“Is she alright?”

Arya ignores him. “The lords wanted to give her your crown when you were gone, and she fought for you. She trusted you, even with Littlefinger trying to make her take the crown, whispering in her ear about you and the dragon queen.”

Jon winces. He hasn’t thought about Littlefinger in months. Had he even bothered to check on Sansa after she had delivered the sanitized report of Littlefinger’s trial? No, he had been too careless for that, preoccupied with pleasing and keeping and taming Daenerys.

 “Then you return with _her_ and you’ve given up the crown Sansa fought so hard to keep. With no explanation. You left her to stand up for the North on her own and now she’s the dragon queen’s enemy.”

Jon releases a shuddering breath. “Aye. I hurt her. I didn’t want to.”

Her eyes widen to an impossible size, something he cannot name filling them. “I have to go.”

His little sister vanishes on feet quicker than a wolf, and Jon worries for her as he makes his way through the putrid city. It is harder to breathe with every step, and near impossible when he finds Grey Worm executing Lannister prisoners. This time it is Davos who silences him, and Jon is shaking when he hears the slice of blade against skin.

 

* * *

 

White lipped and trembling, Sansa pushes her stubborn legs to move faster through the godswood. A raven scroll is clutched tightly in her hand, Brienne on her heels.

Bran is by the weirwood tree, his face slack. His eyes are the tell-tale white. Sansa sinks to her knees beside him and waits.

When he returns to them he begins speaking before she can ask the question. “The city rang the bells of surrender. Cersei’s armies laid down their swords. But Daenerys burned the city to the ground. Ashes cover the city. Ashes fall like snow.”

Sansa steels herself against the tears that prick at her eyes, attempts to still her trembling hands.

“There’s a million citizens in King’s Landing!” Brienne’s shocked voice rings out. Sansa’s breaths come quickly as she tries to wrap her mind around a million lives, all subjected to dragonfire.

“Is Jon alive?”

“Yes.”

“Arya?”

Bran nods and Sansa breathes a sigh of relief for her sister, remembering the trepidation she felt when Arya had come to say goodbye and told her of her mission. “Did she succeed?”

“Cersei Lannister is dead, not by Arya’s hand.”

Sansa is surprised at how little she reacts to the news. Cersei Lannister was a murderer and her tormenter, but a monster of her childhood. Her mind holds new horrors. She holds out the raven scroll to Bran. “Daenerys summoned me to King’s Landing to bend the knee.”

Bran’s bottomless eyes bear into hers when he says, “She wants to kill you.”

“I know.” She doesn’t need Bran’s sight to be sure of it. “But it doesn’t change our plan. Varys’s letters have stopped. Jon is in more danger than ever.”

 

* * *

 

The top of her desk is littered with scrolls, most of them by Varys’s hand. She keeps her composure as she sifts through them. Varys is dead; Bran confirmed it to her when she asked him to search for the eunuch. _Executed by dragonfire,_ a fate hundreds of thousands have suffered at Daenerys’s hand, a fate that awaits her and everyone she loves.

_Not if I have anything to say about it._

As if she hears her thoughts, Brienne speaks up. “Don’t go, my lady. It’s a trap.”

Sansa looks kindly at her; her concern is visible. “I have to. If I don’t, she’ll come to me on dragon back and turn Winterfell to ashes too.”

Samwell Tarly speaks up. “Will you bend the knee?”

Sansa presses her lips together. _Never._ She would never dishonor Robb’s memory that way. She would fight for the North until her dying breath.

Sam’s voice is heated and urgent. “If you don’t she’ll burn you like she burned my brother and father.”

Sansa spares him a steely glance. “I’ll do what I must to protect my people. To liberate Jon.”

Brow furrowed, Sam asks, “Liberate Jon? He went with Daenerys willingly.”

Sansa inhales sharply and quells the instant hurt that wells up inside her. “She has a fickle mind and dragon fire. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of temperamental, cruel rulers. You know Jon. Do you think he did any of that willingly?”

Sam’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “You think he’s in danger.”

“She burned a million people to sit on that chair. Do you think she won’t kill Jon?”

“Then _bend the knee,”_ Sam pleads. “Jon might’ve had the right idea. Bend the knee the moment you see her. You’ll die if you don’t.”

Sansa considers them both, their eyes filled with fear. When she speaks it is through gritted teeth. “If it comes to that. I will bend the knee to save Jon’s life like I fell to my knees to beg for father’s. But I won’t be begging this time.”

 

* * *

 

Standing in Daenerys’s shadow, Jon watches the fearsome woman address her forces. She is eerily pale against the black of her dress, glowing with triumph. Jon doesn’t understand a word, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t care. He watches Daenerys, watches her shiver with delight as she drinks in the devotion of her men.

 _She doesn’t care._ The knowledge shocks him but it shouldn’t. He is a northern fool, the worst kind, for thinking he might find a shred of remorse on that pale face. Yet he cannot believe someone could wreak such destruction and look so pleased.

He reminds himself that it doesn’t change anything. He can’t allow himself to be stuck in his regrets and his guilt. He has to act.

When Daenerys walks away without sparing him a glance, Jon follows. Tyrion is ahead of him alongside a legion of her guards. They settle into a large, mostly intact chamber, and Daenerys is rinsing her hands in a basin when Tyrion speaks.

“The city surrendered. You burned it anyway.”

“It was necessary,” Daenerys says in that detached way of hers.

“Necessary?” Tyrion sounds as disgusted as Jon feels. “What was necessary about the murder of tens of thousands of innocents? Who is there left for you to rule now, my queen?”

“All of Westeros.”

“And will you burn them too? Winterfell—” Every muscle in Jon’s body seizes. “Dorne, Lannisport, and all the cities you didn’t mention in your passionate speech… yes, my Valyrian is weak but I understood enough. What are your intentions with them?”

Jon waits with baited breath for the answer.

“The lords of Westeros will be given the chance to bend the knee.”

Tyrion is quick. “The same chance you gave King’s Landing?”

“Cersei was my enemy.” Daenerys glares. “A tyrant. I know you mourn your sister, but don’t forget who you swore allegiance to, Tyrion Lannister.”

Tyrion’s eyes fall to his feet and Daenerys laughs at his dejection. “Don’t look so worried. I won’t be leaving King’s Landing for a time. I’d like to enjoy my prize.”

Although he fought to maintain a neutral expression throughout the exchange, something must slip at this declaration because her gaze snaps to him. “Jon. Stand before me.”

Jon clasps his hand in front of him and curves his shoulders forward, appearing as submissive as possible, before stepping in front of her.

“You broke my trust when you divulged the secret of your Targaryen blood. You broke your father’s trust. Ned Stark took that secret to his grave, when the Lannisters took his head.”

Rage floods his head to the point of pain. His teeth clash together and he tries, he tries so hard to speak calmly. “Ned Stark would have wanted his daughters to know the truth.”

“The punishment for betrayal and treason is death.”

Jon lets his eyes slip closed. _I failed. I failed, again._

“Swear fealty to me, Jon Snow. Swear fealty and I will spare your life. I will strip you of your Targaryen name and you will rise as Jon Stark, my loyal Warden of the North.”

His mind races as he tries to process her words, tries to figure out what she wants; he didn’t expect this. “I’m not a Stark. I’m not Ned Stark’s son by blood.”

“You have Stark blood from your mother.” She smiles. “It’s time women were elevated in this world. Bend the knee and I will show you mercy.”

“Mercy?” The word leaves him before he can help it and Daenerys’s face falls. The horse toy in the dead girl’s hand enters his mind. “You promised to show the people of King’s Landing mercy. Instead you burned them. Thousands—tens or hundreds of thousands of innocent children, burned.”

If she is bothered by his judgment she doesn’t show it, not beyond a maniac gleam in her eye. “Are you rejecting my proposal? Would you prefer your sister bend the knee?”

He sucks in a harsh breath. Is he trembling? _No, you fool. Stand your ground._

Luckily Daenerys has begun to pace and isn’t looking at him too closely. “While I’m here, I’ll give the lords of Westeros a chance to come to King’s Landing and bend the knee to me. I have no formal education, but I hear that’s the custom. I’ll need your assistance to write them, Tyrion.” She turns to Jon. “I’ve already written Sansa.”

Under the full heat of her gaze, Jon drops to one knee. “You are my queen. That will never change.”

The words fill him with revulsion and a dozen other suppressed feelings as they always do. Horror is chief among them. It always is when Sansa’s name leaves her lips.

“Your devotion is never more touching, never more _obvious_ than when we speak of Sansa. Why is that?”

Jon’s heart beats in his ears. _She can’t know._ “She’s my family.”

“You always seem to choose your family over me.”

He should look at her with the adoration she craves, with kindness even, he should do it for Sansa. He tries. “I gave up my crown, I aided you in this war. I kept my promise. I choose _you,_ your Grace.”

“Am I not your family too?”

He tries to temper his frustration. “You either want me to be a Targaryen, or you don’t.”

Daenerys stares at him for a moment, her mouth curling downwards in that furious frown he recognizes. “It’s a pity. You’ve betrayed me. You attempted to usurp me.”

Jon considers the two dozen guards lining the walls. All Unsullied. His breathing grows harsher as he realizes he’s losing his chance. “I bent the knee! I swore fealty! What else can I do?”

Daenerys shrugs. “Let’s hope your sister bends the knee, too.”

By the time his hands find Longclaw the Unsullied are moving. He holds up his sword. He stalks towards Daenerys as the Unsullied encroach upon him.

“I find you guilty of treason. Take him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! Essentially I stayed up all night after the finale and thought about tweaks that could have saved it. By saved it, I mean turned it from heartbreakingly terrible to okay, since we still have to deal with seasons 7&8\. Please forgive any glaring plot holes as I thought up this fix-it plot in like six hours and started writing on Monday. I kept as many scenes from 8x06 as I could with the proper changes and of course, Jonsa.
> 
> I tried to write this as an alternate-episode and mindfully chose a more concise style. (Basically, sorry for the choppiness). The scenes are shorter and the dialogue tighter than my normal gratuitous fic style because I tried to make this feel as authentic to a TV episode as I could. I hope that shines through!
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	2. one army, one purpose

The great hall is empty and feels colder than ever with only a handful of people in the room. Sansa places her hands on the smooth surface of the head table, where she sits alone.

She regards her audience with a cool, passive look. Lord Royce and Lord Glover sit expressionless, both men as outwardly calm as herself. Bran has elected to sit with them, his chair stopped by the small assembly.

Yara Greyjoy taps her foot, looking like she wants to jump out of her chair. Her restless energy crackles like a storm. Her eyes are hard while Theon’s were soft, but Sansa sees him in her coloration and the shape of her mouth.

“I appreciate what you wrote of my brother. It’s the only reason I’m here.” Yara meets her eyes. “That slimy eunuch wrote me enough. Is this about your Targaryen cousin?”

“No. We want to form an alliance.”

“My understanding is we’re already allies.”

Sansa bites her tongue; it wouldn’t do to alienate Yara by insulting the dragon queen just yet. “We need your ships and your men. We need to sail out of White Harbor to King’s Landing.”

Yara’s eyes narrow as she regards her for a long moment. “Why? From what I hear, the war is won.”

“Did you hear how the war was won?” Sansa leans forward in her chair and puts all her anger and fear and mourning behind her words. “Did you hear how the entire city burned even though it surrendered? Does it remind you of anything? Of how the Iron Islands were brought to heel?”

Yara clenches a fist on her knee. “Queen Daenerys wouldn’t do that.”

“She did,” Bran cuts in.

Yara twists to look at him. “I don’t know you.”

“My brother has a power from the old gods,” Sansa explains. “He can see the past and all things happening presently. Theon died to protect him.”

 “Daenerys promised us our independence,” Yara protests, but Sansa can hear her indecision. “She promised to rid the world of Euron and Cersei and she did.”

“She also promised to be your ally. Yet she allowed Euron to capture you. She didn’t try to save you.” Bran continues speaking despite Yara’s scowl. “She left you and Ellaria Sand to your fates. If Theon could save you with a handful of men, why couldn’t she?”

Yara’s fists unclench and turn over to grasp at her knees. She scoffs. “Well if that’s how she treats her allies, imagine how she treats her enemies.”

“We have an army.” Sansa raises her hands to the representatives in the room. “Northmen, the Tully army, the Dornish army, and the Knights of the Vale.”

Hers and Varys’s tireless work paid off. When Littlefinger’s whispers of the dragon queen wormed into her mind and latched onto her own fears, she started to consider forming her own army. The sight of dragons soaring over Winterfell cemented it. She started by reclaiming Lord Glover’s men. Loyal Lord Royce needed no convincing. Familial ties aside, Edmure Tully needed only the proof that Daenerys uses dragonfire on her allies to join them. Many ravens exchanged between Varys, herself, and Prince Alloryn Martell had convinced the Dornish to join them. His alliance with Daenerys had been shaky at best, and vanished completely when Sansa told him what happened to King’s Landing. Dorne never did bend to dragons.

“The Tully army and the Dornish army are already riding to King’s Landing.”

When Yara doesn’t speak, Sansa softens her voice. “There’s no running from this. You were safe on your islands from wights, but the seas are no shield from a dragon.”

“Cersei was her enemy. The Ironborn are not. She won’t burn us.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa allows. “Are you willing to take the chance?”

 

* * *

 

The room is in disarray, every surface covered in dust and rubble. Tyrion squints through the darkness of evening. Jon Snow sits on the edge of a chair large enough to be its own throne, dwarfed even further by the lack of his usual armor or furs.

Jon doesn’t turn his head when he asks, voice cracking, “Sansa?”

Tyrion takes pity on the man. “She’s not here.”

A strange, crazed sound escapes Jon, something like a laugh. “It doesn’t matter. She’s not safe. Dany has a dragon.”

Stepping carefully closer, Jon’s face comes into view. He is gaunt and hollow-cheeked and haunted.

“Has she burned anyone else?” Jon asks quietly. “Has she said where she’s going next?”

“She’s staying here.” Tyrion finds himself relieved to have something positive to say. “She’s true to her word. She’s not her father.”

“No, she’s not.”

Tyrion sighs in relief. He had come hoping to convince Jon to see sense, to save himself from a death sentence. He truly does like the man; more than that, he admires him, and he pities him all the same. Tyrion sees his father in him, that damned honor streak that ends lives too early. More importantly he sees a similarity between the two of them, Tyrion and Jon, that goes beyond being bastards and betrayed by the world at every turn. They both care about saving lives. No one cares more about that than Jon Snow.

“She’s not her father.” Jon meets Tyrion’s eyes. “She’s worse. Her father was mad. She’s perfectly sane.”

Tyrion’s mouth falls open. He looks into Jon’s black, dull, hard eyes as pieces start to click.

_She is my queen._

_I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey._

“You were lying,” Tyrion declares, hardly believing the words even as he says them, even as the proof unfurls in his brain. “You were lying the whole time.”

Jon had gone from refusing to bend the knee despite being a prisoner to surrendering his crown. Why? Because he’d seen Daenerys’s dragons in action beyond the wall and knew he needed them no matter the cost? Because he knew she was capable of burning _anything_ after she burned the much needed resources in Highgarden? Tyrion shakes his head as more questions and infinite answers race through his mind.

“I should have seen it,” he mutters. “But how could I? You wouldn’t even lie in the dragon pit….” Another piece settles into place. “Was that a part of your ruse? To gain Daenerys’s trust?”

“I did what I had to do.”

 Tyrion presses a shaking hand to his mouth. _He already saw Daenerys was more dangerous than Cersei. Jon Snow saw it, and you didn’t. Both women fooled you._

He can’t help the wry laugh that escapes him. “Honorable Ned Stark’s son! Lying out of self-preservation. What a wonder.”

“Aye, I’m Ned Stark’s son,” Jon says gruffly. “I learned from his mistakes.”

“Did you? Here you sit, a prisoner in the red keep, awaiting your own execution.”

The irony is staggering. “No… you are just like your father, aren’t you?” Tyrion tries to solve the mystery aloud. “You didn’t lie to save your own head, and neither did he. You did it for Sansa.”

Jon’s eyes widen before shifting away from Tyrion’s careful gaze. Jon’s posture stiffens and his hands curl. _Oh no._ He had grown up with Cersei and Jamie yet he didn’t see this. Tyrion wants to bury his face in his hands. Wasn’t he the one who convinced Daenerys Jon loved her?

“I did it for my family, for the North.”

Tyrion’s throat prickles; he yearns for a drink.

“Aye, I’ll burn,” Jon says, sad and resigned. “I’ll burn like my uncle and grandfather. I don’t mind dying. But I failed.”

Curious, Tyrion asks, “What were you trying to do?”

“To fight the dead, to save the living.” Once again Jon’s hard gaze beats into Tyrion’s skull. “To protect the people in this city from becoming corpses.”

His throat tightens. “I did— _everything_ I could to save them.”

Jon shakes his head. “How can you still support her?”

 “If I do anything differently, I’ll share this cell with you. We can burn together, and what good would that do? Who would be here to advise and control her?”

“You _can’t_ control her, you _haven’t_ controlled her! _Open your eyes!”_

The force of Jon’s outburst lingers in the air, crackling.

“I was a fool,” Jon says softly. “Everything I did, lying, going it alone, thinking I could control her too.”

“There’s a part of her—” Tyrion hates how he sounds, like he is begging. “A part of her that’s good.”

“Aye,” Jon allows. “But it’s gone.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion finds Daenerys standing before the Iron Throne with a hand on the pommel of one of its swords. Tears sting his eyes. After speaking with Jon, he hadn’t been able to stop walking and thinking, finding that his feet carried him to the destruction of the tunnels. The mountains of rubble were too high and too terrible but he had found one single golden hand.

His voice is rough when he speaks. “My queen.”

When she turns to look at him there is a radiant smile upon her face, and Tyrion wants to cry. She looks like she did in Meereen, she looks like the fierce and kind queen he put his faith in. How can he reconcile that woman with the one before him?

“Can you believe it? I have everything I’ve wanted since I was a little girl.”

“Was this your dream? You said you didn’t want to be queen of the ashes. That’s what you are.”

Tyrion ignores the way his chest hurts when he pulls the Hand pin from his person and throws it to the ground. He ignores the way the Unsullied guards take a step closer.

But he cannot ignore the way Daenerys’s smile falls off her face degree by painful degree.

“I was looking for you. You were visiting with the prisoner. Jon, Varys, Jaime… Are traitors the company you keep?” Daenerys’s lip curls. “Yes, I know you freed your brother.”

Tyrion feels shock and fear, then he almost laughs at himself. What does it matter if she knows? He already signed his death sentence.

“Tyrion Lannister, you are guilty of treason.”

Drogon roars from beyond, perhaps sensing he is needed. Grey Worm marches into the room and approaches Daenerys. They confer quietly for a moment until she turns to him and commands, “Put him in chains and under heavy guard. I want no less than fifty watching him.”

 

* * *

 

“Drogon sits outside the red keep. Daenerys has little more than a thousand Unsullied and Dothraki combined.”

“A thousand?” After her brother’s update Sansa looks for encouragement in Brienne’s direction and finds it in her nod and small smile. “We can win. Is there anything else?”

Bran raises a hand to rub at his head. “Tyrion is her prisoner. And Jon…”

Sansa’s heart stops. “Jon?”

“He’s her prisoner as well.”

“Is he hurt? And Arya, did you see her?”

“They’re both well. She—” Bran is cut off by a guttural groan, his hands raising to hold his head.

Sansa rushes to him and holds up her brother as he slumps forward in his chair. His eyes are half closed, small moans of pain escaping him.

“Get him some water, food!” Sansa is aware of the hysteria in her voice as she commands the guard standing in the corner of the tent. When Bran opens his eyes and focuses on her a small sob escapes her. “I shouldn’t have let you come. The further south we go, the more drained you are… there are no weirwoods here.”

“I told you, sister,” Bran says in a weak voice. “I have to come with you. This is exactly where I need to be.”

“No more, Bran. We are two days away from King’s Landing. We can do without your sight. Save your strength.”

Sansa stands and wrings her hands in front of her. “We should charge King’s Landing now and save Jon.”

“We need to follow our strategy,” Brienne protests firmly but gently. “Daenerys can’t know about our army yet.”

“What if she already knows?”

“She has no master of whisperers, no scouts, and Tyrion is her prisoner. She doesn’t seem to understand the importance of knowledge.”

Was Jon in a dungeon cell, like her father had been? Sansa thinks of Ramsay’s letter and Rickon’s body plugged with arrows. The memory makes silent tears slide down her cheeks. _This is just like that,_ an instinct tells her, an instinct borne here in this terrible place. _Learn from your mistakes._

“You’re right, we can’t use the army. We have to send a small group in to save Jon under cover of night.”

Brienne considers for a while. “It could work. We have a group going into King’s Landing at nightfall for the smuggling. We’ll send another alongside them to extract Jon.”

“Go with them, please, Brienne. Bring him back.”

Brienne lifts her chin. “I would die before I left your side.”

A strangled sob dies in Sansa's throat. Her hands clutch each other until Brienne bends so that their eyes meet. “Trust me. We’ll bring him back.”

 

* * *

 

The camp is quiet in the night hours and Davos paces without disturbance. He is more restless than ever. Jon has been taken prisoner and he wasn’t permitted to see him no matter how he yelled at those unfeeling Unsullied. Tyrion grabbed him one such time and implored him in a low hiss to thank the gods the dragon queen didn’t see his displays, and to care for his men and refugees outside the walls of the city rather than die within them. It was good advice, Davos isn’t stupid enough to deny that. But his wandering feet carry him for hours anyway. He thinks of Jon’s precarious fate and his throat closes up. He won’t let that boy die.

 He has drifted a bit far from camp when he hears a low call that has him squinting in the darkness. A form of a man, then several men—Davos reaches for his sword before he recognizes the face.

“ _Podrick?”_

The man is smiling sweetly as ever as he nods.

“What are you doing here?” Davos asks, bewildered. “Are those Ironborn?”

The only answer he receives is, “We need a smuggler’s help.”

They walk until the camp is far behind them and Davos’s legs start to ache. More soldiers appear in the darkness—Ironborn, Vale Knights, and more Northmen. A man with shining blue eyes that pierce the darkness stands before an enormous carriage.

“Gendry!” The delight Davos feels fades quickly as reality sets in. “What are you all doing here? Get out of here, son, or you’ll die.”

“We could die anyway.” Gendry’s jaw is set and his voice is conviction. “We follow Sansa Stark. All of us, one army.”

 Davos has barely begun to process these words when Podrick places a hand on his shoulder. “We’re here to end this. Will you help us?”

 

* * *

 

The golden lion at the head of the crossbow is a pretty, intricately carved thing. Daenerys can appreciate that, even if it curls her lip with distaste to look at it. She wants one like it, she decides, blood red and with the head of a dragon.

“You have been captured outside the city walls trying to evade my soldiers,” she says to the restrained man behind her. “They found a Lannister crossbow on your person. You see why that looks suspicious?”

“I serve you, I serve the dragon queen,” the man insists for the umpteenth time. “Ask Tyrion Lannister. Ask him how long I’ve known him, ask him if I was in Winterfell. I was never on Cersei’s side. I was undercover. I knew you’d win!”

Daenerys regards the man. He is a simpering coward and a liar. She would have executed him but his crossbow intrigued her. There’s a story behind it, she’s sure.

“Tyrion Lannister has been found guilty of treason. He betrayed his queen.”

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, I haven’t betrayed you. I journeyed down from Winterfell to serve you, no one made me. I followed all along that red-headed bitch’s army, hiding—”

“What did you say?” Daenerys feels the blood rush to her head. “Sansa Stark is marching an army here?”

When he nods Daenerys feels an invisible weight lift from her shoulders, a shiver of delight snaking down her spine. “You may prove yourself to me with a gift worthy of a queen.”

“I’ll do whatever you like,” he swears. “Now I understand Tyrion’s a traitor but we had a deal, he and I. He owed me gold and promised me Highgarden once you took the throne.”

“You misunderstand me, Ser Bronn.” She watches the fear creep into his eyes. “All I offer you is your own life, and it’s more than you deserve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I'm sorry for all the Dany but realistically the last episode would feature her and since the last two seasons have been The Dany Show I wanted to at least give her a good conclusion that made sense, and was intriguing for the audience. Forgive me! Worry not, there's lots of Jon, Sansa, Arya, and other characters in the future! In the same vein, I really didn't want to include Bronn in my "finale" but they wasted precious screentime minutes on his plot this season and it has to go somewhere?? Plus Joffrey's crossbow is too poetic... 
> 
> Because of the "TV show effect" there will also be more POVs than normal as events need to be shown rather than communicated between a couple main POV characters. Get ready, the next chapter's a trip. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Keep it coming!


	3. yield

When day breaks, Arya changes her skin. She has just left her post as a guard at the door where her brother is being kept. Most nights she assumes her place, silent and unassuming as the rest of the Unsullied. It hurts her to stand still and play a part in trapping him. Her hands itch to slice every throat she has to until she can break into the room and take Jon’s hand and _run._

But Daenerys has a dragon that would follow them and burn everyone between them, so even Arya Stark has to control her urges.

The dragon must die first, then Daenerys. But for all her talents she has no idea how to kill a dragon, nothing beyond the Scorpions Cersei has used, and Arya has spent much of her time searching the city for one that might be intact. Nothing.

A few days past she discovered Sansa’s army on one of her scouting missions. She only allowed herself a moment of awe before thinking furiously. Sansa had a plan; she _must_ , for the army halted its progress and has not mounted an attack. It seemed imperative that her army remain unknown to Daenerys. If she rescues Jon the dragon would follow and the army revealed.

 She would continue her scouting missions until Sansa mounted the attack, Arya decided, and then she’d know how best to help. Until then she would continue to guard Jon, until the day they bring him to Daenerys for his execution. _Then_ she will slice every throat she has to and run.

 

* * *

  
When day breaks, the red keep is finally in Podrick’s sights. The group of Northern soldiers and Vale knights have been moving at a snail’s pace through the city, avoiding Daenerys’s army and the still-crumbling buildings. With the red keep in sight Podrick starts to think on where Jon could be—of the group he leads he is the only one who’s lived in the red keep, or even stepped foot in King’s Landing. It is strange to find himself spearheading the men, but Podrick moves forward steadily, the unfamiliar weight of Longclaw at his hip.

 

* * *

 

When day breaks, Brienne walks into her lady’s tent and finds it empty. Nervous sweat beads on her lip as she scours the perimeter carefully, her pace slow and her eagle eye missing nothing. Then she grits her teeth and swallows her panic and yells at the guards to search the camp. “Lady Sansa Stark is missing!”

Brienne is patient and collected as reports come back to her through the morning from all corners of the camp. Finally she enters Lord Brandon Stark’s tent and, loathe as she is to do it, shakes his shoulder to wake him from his deep slumber.

“It’s going to begin. Are you ready?” She waits for his sage nod before continuing. “Your sister is missing. We’ve searched the entire camp. _Find her.”_

 

* * *

 

By the time they come for him, Jon has spent so many days and nights pondering what he was complicit in that it takes a few minutes of being dragged through the halls for him to realize he is being taken to his execution. Though “execution” is too noble and righteous a word for what is about to happen.

His father, his uncle, and his grandfather had died here, and Jon has never felt closer to the part of him that’s Stark, except for perhaps the day that he was crowned King in the North—the day he looked at Sansa with disbelief and delight and held his breath until she beamed at him.

He thinks of the turrets and crypts of Winterfell, of the broken tower, of little Arya with missing teeth and fierce gaze, of Bran climbing and speaking of knights. He thinks of Sansa’s copper hair and winter-blue eyes, of her cold hands and her steel backbone, of her quiet strength and unyielding priorities and her tender care and surprising laughs that always feel like precious gifts. He swallows. How would he protect them from the grave?

Jon closes his eyes. All of it, all of it for nothing.

 

* * *

 

The ruin of King’s Landing is worse than anything her imagination could have conjured. The rubble of the buildings broken and cracked is terrible enough without the ash, the stench that clogs her nostrils and makes her want to retch, the bloodstains that make her want to cry for every life taken.   

The sellsword prods her in her back with the crossbow, _that_ crossbow hard enough to leave bruises as they walk through the city. Sansa bites her trembling lip and keeps her back straight. _I swore I’d never come here again,_ a resentful childish voice laments. The place of her abuse and torment, the home of Cersei’s sneers and Joffrey’s smirks, where she was not Sansa Stark but a key to be traded and sold, the birthplace of her terrors and the downfall of her family.

 _It’s not the same. You’re not the same._ Sansa repeats this reminder to herself with every step. She is the Lady of Winterfell. She’s come with an army. Despite the crossbow at her back she is not powerless, not without purpose.

“I am here for these innocent souls,” she whispers under her breath. “I am here for the North. I’m here for Jon.”

By midmorning she is in the red keep and even in its ruined state her sinking heart knows the path she is walking.

The throne room is a twisted version of its former self, the ceiling nonexistent, the walls cracked open to let in the grey sky. Unsullied soldiers line the walls. The Iron Throne is empty.

Sansa stands still with her chin held high and her heart beating a furious pace in her chest, Joffrey’s crossbow still pointed at her. A piercing dragon cry reverberates from above. The dragon descends and Sansa wobbles on her feet, the proximity sending a bolt of terror straight through her.

Daenerys climbs off his back and smiles, not a hair out of place. “I received your reply to my letter.”

“Yes.” Sansa swallows through a suddenly dry throat, unable to tear her eyes away from the dragon for too long, an effect Daenerys seems to enjoy. “I’m here because you summoned me.”

“You’re here because I captured you, you mean.” She raises a brow. “Am I supposed to believe you’re here to bend the knee when you’ve brought an army to my gates?”

Sansa thinks quickly, forcing a tight smile. “They’re your men. They’re here to serve their queen.”

The collected control falls away from Daenerys’s face until there is nothing but naked fury. She stalks closer until they are toe to toe. A hand darts up to seize her chin, pulling a hiss from Sansa, pulling her face down until all she can see are her crazed eyes.

“You told Tyrion about Jon. I knew you would. See the consequences of your actions.”

With a snarl and a final pinch, Daenerys releases her grip. She steps back and nods to someone; moments later a legion of Unsullied walk in and part, revealing their prisoner.

The jolt of terror Sansa feels is reflected in Tyrion’s eyes, who stands with mouth agape as he stares at her for several long moments. His face crumbles. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re apologizing to _her?”_ It is a shrill cry. When Daenerys speaks again she is calm. “Choose your words wisely. They are your last.”

“I deserve to die. I was willing to die when I released Jamie to ring the bells—my life was a small price to pay for all those innocents. Now I am damned for playing a part in their deaths.”

“No one is innocent,” Daenerys bites out. “A new world can’t be built by men who live in their old one.”

Tyrion shakes his head sadly. “I’ve made many mistakes. The worst of them was serving you.”

Sansa watches with growing dismay as Tyrion closes his eyes, his features relaxing in resignation. 

“Let him have a trial,” Sansa interjects. “That is the way in Westeros.”

“The dragon doesn’t ask the sheep what justice is. I _am_ justice.” Daenerys stares at Tyrion with dead eyes. “Dracarys.”

The dragon rumbles; Sansa shields her face as an impossible heat bursts past her. Her throat is cracking and she realizes she is screaming.

 

* * *

 

The dragon is roaring and _burning_ , Jon can feel the heat on his face even through the wall of Unsullied. The guards push him past them and suddenly he can _see,_ he can see the plume of fire and the shadows within—and Sansa.

He gasps, pulling in short, shuddering breaths. She is standing behind the flames, her face contorted with horror. _No,_ he is weak, traumatized, disillusioned. It can’t be real. Let it not be her.

Her eyes, bright blue, cut into him. Her mouth falls open. Her face twists and tears roll down her cheeks, a broken word that he cannot hear escaping her lips, but he knows what it is. He knows it is his name.

 

* * *

 

As she yanks Oathkeeper from a Dothraki’s torso, Brienne hears the dragon. She rushes forward. _“This way!”_

The soldiers follow. The trip across the city and through the keep has been largely uneventful; most of Daenerys’s men seem to be camped in one place, and Brienne avoided it, finding only small distractions littered through the city and keep. She was only able to mobilize a small contingent of the army before leaving to find Sansa, but so far they have been enough. She has left orders with the military leaders to mobilize the army if the green flare, safe at her waist, goes off.

When Podrick and his group cross their path, she grabs him. “We haven’t found him yet—”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Brienne’s instincts tell her Jon is with Sansa. She quickens her pace. She has to get to the throne room.

 

* * *

 

Arya cannot help a whimper when she hears the dragon’s roar, her mind taking her back to the day the world melted around her. This time she runs towards it.

_Jon Sansa Jon Sansa—_

The clink of steel and scuffle hits her alert ears, and Arya changes paths.

 

* * *

 

He is making his way to his queen when he hears it, an odd screech of something dragging on the stone floors, and several men muttering. His soldiers are markedly silent and the screamers don’t bother controlling their voices. Instantly suspicious, Grey Worm pursues the sound.

There is a legion of soldiers, led by Jon Snow’s man who they call the Onion Knight. The black haired one he recognizes too, a man Queen Daenerys graced with a lordship in Winterfell. Between them is a wood and steel contraption Grey Worm recognizes, one that boils the blood in his veins.

“You betray your queen?” Grey Worm grasps his spear between sure hands. “She made you a lord.”

The black haired man reaches for the hilt of long hammer. “She also burned down my home and everyone I ever knew.”

It will be him against many but he is quicker and better than all of them.

“Take Bran!” The black haired man yells before charging with his hammer. Grey Worm deflects his attack easily and watches from the corner of his eye as several soldiers carry the crippled boy through the hall.

He lets them go. He must destroy the machine they are guarding first. With silence and precision he attacks.

 

* * *

 

In the scuffle and the blood all she sees is blue eyes, bluer than the ocean or the sky. Arya does not have time to think his name before a groan drags her attention elsewhere. Ser Davos is on the ground, clutching his shoulder, clothes discolored by blood.

With a cry she leaps into the fray, engaging Grey Worm whose mouth snarls as she leaps and strikes faster than he can move. She sees the Scorpion beyond them and understands.

“Take it!” Arya meets Gendry’s eyes for half a heartbeat before she ducks away from Grey Worm’s spear. “Finish it!”

She doesn’t know if he answers, but the scrape of the Scorpion’s wheels against the ground is answer enough, and she fights harder as an enraged Grey Worm struggles to move beyond her and follow it.

The dragon must die.

 

* * *

 

Jon is whole and beautiful and dirty and alive, Jon is _Jon._ His chest rises visibly with his breaths. His dark eyes shine as they hold her own.

 “Are you sad to see him gone?”

Sansa’s eyes snap to her. Daenerys is looking between them with growing fury. “Tyrion was a husband forced on you. I know how I’ve felt towards men who wronged me. I liked watching them get what they deserve.”

“He was kind to me,” she chokes out. It is rage and misery and mourning that choke her, a thousand things she wants to say to the cruel woman caught in her throat.

“He put you at risk. He wasn’t worthy of your trust. He was a Lannister. He brought me to Westeros, he advised me for years… shouldn’t you hate him for that?” There is a curious challenge in Daenerys’s eyes as she presses on. “He brought Jon to me.”

Sansa refuses the bait. “I didn’t want him to die, because he made choices I don’t agree with.”

Against her will her eyes catch on the blackened lump still flaming in places—gods, was that a man, a man she knew?

“You are a tyrant.” It is more of a growl than a sentence spoken. “You are a monster.”

“Sansa.” Her name is a sharp plea from Jon. “Stop.”

Daenerys looks at him. “Are you defending me, my love? Or protecting her?”

Jon twists his chin to one side and stares at the ground. Sansa recognizes the gesture. He is angry, enraged, and trying to hold it in. _Please hold on just a little longer,_ she pleads silently. She thinks of the army and the Scorpion and every protection she’d brought with her with a fervor as strong as a prayer. She reminds herself she isn’t helpless.

“Did you ever love me?”

The question arrests the room. Jon’s pleading eyes are on Daenerys, his face a mask of tension when he says, “You know I do.”

The scoff Daenerys releases is terrifying. “You used me.” She speaks slowly, the words laden with pain and realization. “You used my children to fight your war and save your people.”

“If you wanted to be queen, then they were your people too,” Jon seethes. “I’ve seen how you treat your people.”

With every step Daenerys takes towards Jon, Sansa’s chest seizes with terror.

“I had three dragons, my advisors, my armies, and my best friend before I met you.” It is a rumble deeper than her dragon’s. “ _You took everything from me.”_

Daenerys’s frenzied eyes shine with tears. “Even my claim you took from me.” She turns towards Sansa. “Now you will watch as I take everything from you.”

Jon takes two steps forward before the soldiers restrain him, wrenching brutish cries from him as he resists them. “Wait, _don’t—_ ”

“Bend the knee.” Daenerys returns to her place by her dragon’s head. She regards Sansa with empty eyes. “Or burn.”

Sansa’s spine locks. She looks at Jon, who is still resisting the soldiers who grasp his arms and shoulders, his eyes wild and imploring. “Do it, Sansa!”

A gasp rips from her throat. Fury rises in her chest as she thinks of Robb, her father, her family, little Lyanna Mormont, the North. But all she can see is Jon, Jon’s eyes that hold her. 

In a voice lower and rougher than Sansa’s ever heard it, he begs. “Do it! Sansa. _Live._ ”

A fierce tenderness blooms in her chest, surprising her. Sansa swallows a million protests as she lowers her chin. She thinks of Arya and Bran, somewhere in this ruinous city. She thinks of her father’s decapitated head. _Never again._

With her family’s beloved faces in mind, Sansa drops to her knees.

Daenerys’s face twists from pleasure to disgust to misery. She begins shaking her head. “All I have is fear.” She says it like she is helpless. “There is no place for mercy.”

Paralyzed, Sansa watches a storm rip through Jon. His litany of broken cries, “No! No! Don’t! _Sansa—_ ” as he tries to run to her. He is yelling and fighting with bare hands, feet scrabbling for purchase as soldiers pile onto his body. On Daenerys’s command, one of them holds up his head. _To watch,_ Sansa thinks with an odd detachment. _To watch me burn._

“Jon.” Tears pour freely down her face now, and she pushes herself to her feet despite her trembling legs. She will not die on her knees.

Sansa stares into Jon’s beautiful, desperately pained eyes. “Don’t look,” she pleads in a voice that breaks, then speaks loudly and clearly. “I love you and Arya and Bran—”

“Dracarys.”

Sansa screws her eyes shut.

Jon’s wretched scream of agony breaks her heart but there is no pain beyond that. No heat. Barely daring to hope, heart beating a frantic rhythm, she opens her eyes.

Daenerys is slack jawed with shock, staring up at her dragon, whose eyes are white.

“Dracarys!”

The dragon ignores his mother’s command, staring unseeingly with those white eyes Sansa knows so well. An incredulous, grateful sob escapes her mouth.

Without a blink the dragon turns, forcing Daenerys and several Unsullied to scramble away from his enormous body. Sansa whips around and runs to Jon.

The dragon opens its great maw and aims its fire at the Iron Throne.

 

* * *

 

With a huff Gendry pulls the Scorpion the final few feet into place, at the edge of the high wall Sansa and Bran chose. Dragging the Scorpion here alone has cost him every ounce of his strength and he gives himself a moment to stand bent over, hands on his knees, panting.

Now that he is still all he can think of is Arya. His teeth gnash together as he recalls how he’d left her to fight Grey Worm alone. _She’s stronger than you, she’s better than him,_ he reminds himself. Did any warrior stand a chance against the slayer of the Night King? Still, his body aches with worry for her. He straightens and reminds himself why he left her in the first place.

He seeks out Bran, confirming he arrived safely. His eyes are white.

Gendry winces when Arya enters his mind again, unbidden. She was covered in grime and looked so _exhausted_ but ferocious and prettier than ever. He shakes his head to clear it only to think of Davos, groaning and bloodied on the ground. Gendry prays he is alive, he prays he can help him soon.

But first—

“Burn it,” he commands roughly, passing a flare to the nearest soldier with a torch. 

 

* * *

 

The Iron Throne is no more, the ugly chair melted down to bubbling metal. Daenerys is sobbing and calling her dragon’s name as if it would make a difference. But Jon has eyes for none of it, his focus on getting to Sansa. She is reaching for him; two Unsullied hold her back. They tear her gown and scratch her skin as she struggles to free herself. Jon’s rage threatens to tear him open.

A red flare explodes in the sky beyond them. Drogon whips his head towards it and spreads his wings. Daenerys screams his name as he flies away.

Jon grits his teeth and his eyes narrow with renewed purpose as they turn to Daenerys. The room holds its breath, everyone sensing what Jon knows. Daenerys is nothing without her dragon. The tide has turned.

He fights with renewed fervor. His hands are raw and bloody but he will bleed and bleed until he has atoned for his mistakes, until Daenerys is gone and Sansa is safe in Winterfell.

The pounding of feet behind him jerks his attention. Vale armor, Northern armor, others he won’t try to recognize now and the familiar shine of yellow hair.

Unsullied rush to Daenerys as she screams, “Kill her! Kill them!”

The weight of Unsullied against his body lessens as his soldiers, _Sansa’s soldiers,_ swarm them. He elbows and kicks and punches until none other than a grisly Podrick pushes into the swarm and shoves a familiar pommel into his hand.

With Longclaw in his grip, fury and _need_ vibrating through his body, it is easy to cut through everyone who stands between him and Sansa. With one hand he peels the soldier restraining her off her body, plunging his sword into his gut. The other releases Sansa and faces him but Jon deflects his spear once, twice, before slicing into his neck.

Sansa stands still. Battle rages around them but Jon can do nothing but look at her. Dazzling eyes rimmed in red, raw from crying, arms clutching her middle as if they are keeping her intact. _My fault,_ he has a moment to think before she launches herself into his body with a force that nearly knocks him off his feet. But he could never fall, not when it is her, not when she needs him.

For a single moment Jon allows himself to inhale deeply, to clutch her to his body like he is drowning and she is air. Then, loathe as he is to do it, he sets her to her feet and grasps her shoulders, making sure she is focused on him when he says, “ _Stay behind me.”_

In one swift movement he shifts them both so she is pressed up against his back, her small hands fisted in his jerkin. Jon moves in circles as he makes his slow way to the exit, yanking her out of danger, pushing her away when he engages a soldier only to clutch her closer when the threat is past. He is aware of Brienne making her way across the room to them. He is aware of more of their soldiers filing into the room. _Almost there, almost over,_ he thinks with an unbearable twinge of hope, just as Daenerys bears upon them, clutching a dagger in one hand.

 

* * *

 

The Scorpion is there but Gendry isn’t. Arya’s breath is shallow in her nose as she surveys the scene; at the top of the high wall no more than two dozen Dothraki engage the Ironborn who fight in a circle, a line of archers and spear carriers, protecting her brother, unaware in his chair with white eyes. Her heart surges at the sight of him.

A dragon cry commands everyone’s attention. Drogon is flying, towards _them_.

In the space of a pulse Arya evaluates her options. Jaw set, she runs towards the Scorpion, shoving the soldier manning it.

The dragon hurtles towards them. Arya grabs the levers and aims.

 

* * *

 

Jon is a whirlwind of motion, his sword one extension of his body, she another. Sansa clasps any part of him as tightly as she can for as long as she can until Jon pushes her down or away only to pull her back to him.

All of a sudden, Jon stills. Disoriented by the abrupt lack of movement, Sansa looks over his shoulder. Daenerys strides towards them, a blade in hand, eyes on her.

She shudders against Jon’s back. Without turning to her or speaking a word, Jon strokes her hand that grasps his side until she releases him. Both his hands return to Longclaw and raise it slowly.

Sansa doesn’t need to see his face to know. _This is it,_ she thinks with no small amount of anguish. Not for Daenerys, but for Jon, whose good heart is tormented by every kill.

Daenerys is close enough to reach out and touch. Her lip pulls back into a snarl and Jon tenses, raising his sword.

The Unsullied soldier behind her falls away with a torrent of blood and before Sansa’s mind can register what it sees, Daenerys is ripped open. A long blade enters her back and protrudes from her chest for a single, still moment before its owner retracts it. When she crumbles to the ground it is Brienne who stands behind her, grim determination locking her mouth.

 

* * *

 

Shock is followed by relief; Sansa and Jon collapse into each other, the man’s unfailing rigidity holding them both up. Sansa’s white-knuckled grasp on him is a foil to the gentle cradle of his hands on her face. He whispers things to her Brienne cannot hear.

Brienne allows them this small reprieve, keeping a careful eye on their immediate surroundings. The battle is nearly won. Some of the Unsullied stand in shock, shells of their former selves, as the knowledge of their queen’s death spreads through them like a ripple.

Finally Brienne nudges the pair; Sansa embraces her while Jon seems to be waking from a dream, slowly assessing the room. “What next? Sansa, is there somewhere safe you can—”

“Bran,” Sansa interrupts, looking at her meaningfully. Brienne nods and takes the lead.

 

* * *

 

A shriek so heartrending and terrible pierces the air. Sansa nearly stumbles on the steps at the shock of it, Jon’s arm saving her from a tumble, and she returns to her feet just in time to watch the great dragon fall from the sky with a cascade of blood.

The three of them exchange glances before running up the steps twice as fast. They are almost to the wall Sansa knows Bran would be at, brilliant Bran who has done so well, who warged into the dragon successfully despite both their doubts and fears, who brought Drogon to the Scorpion, who saved her from death by dragonfire.

As soon as they climb the top step a Dothraki blade nearly takes Brienne’s arm; she leaps into the fray with a mighty roar. Jon shoves Sansa behind him but her eye snags on a blue-and-black heap on the ground, the broken chair, the raven hair Sansa would recognize anywhere.

Sansa runs to her brother, dragging his limp body until his head rests in her lap. Bran’s eyes are closed, his face alarmingly pale, twin trickles of blood seeping from his nose. She slaps his cheeks, dread spotting the edges of her vision with black.

She is dimly aware of Jon standing somewhere above her, leaping and yelling as he fights to protect them. Familiar small hands join her, patting and pressing on Bran’s body and face, and Sansa jerks her gaze up to Arya.

A blow to her head knocks Sansa away and she dimly hears Arya’s answering outcry. Placing her hands on the stone she pushes herself up, determined despite the throb of pain and dizziness.

 “ _Arya!_ Protect him!” Sansa is screaming but hardly aware of it, has to scream to be heard above the din, above the beat of her heart. “Get him away from here!”

But Arya’s short arms are no match for a body three times her size. Arya’s face twists in frustration as she attempts again and again to drag Bran into her hold. She is almost sobbing when she laments, “I can’t, _I can’t—”_

The last thing Sansa sees before her vision goes black is a broad man covered in blood bending besides her sister, gathering Bran into his arms with ease. Gendry doesn’t speak but he looks into Arya’s eyes. Sansa watches her sister’s face break into the sweetest relief, the expression so joyful and pure and _loving_ it knocks the breath out of her. _She looks like a little girl again,_ Sansa thinks, before her world vanishes.


	4. a time for wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh here it is! The end! I'm so excited and I just hope it lives up to your expectations!
> 
> To everyone who took this little journey with me: thank you!!! We are in this together. The pain of the finale will never leave us, but fanfiction heals.
> 
> +
> 
> If you're interested, I posted a new Jonsa fic that will be, um, MUCH longer. Also canon-divergent but starts at the end of season 6. I hope I'll see you there!

The minutes after reaching the top of the wall are excruciatingly long. Bran is unconscious and Sansa is no longer behind Jon, but crouched over their brother. Jon can barely spare a couple glances as he fields Dothraki off them.

Arya is there. His shock at seeing her steals the breath from his body, but the sword in his hand keeps fighting the Dothraki who grow wilder and bolder as they decrease in number.  

Then Gendry is carrying Bran and they disappear along with Arya and _Sansa is unconscious—_ he leaps to her but before he can lift her into his arms he is attacked. He fights for what feels like an eternity over her prone form.

Jon locks eyes with a gaze just as dark as his. At the archway where the winding stairs start, Grey worm stands. Jon pulls himself to his full height.

“The dragon is dead,” Jon calls to him. “Your queen is dead. Order your army to surrender or you will all die as well.”

Jon holds his breath but Grey Worm’s stern face is inscrutable. His arm jerks as he grasps his spear tighter.

Then he throws it to the ground.

 

* * *

 

When Sansa appears in the doorway it startles Jon out of an hours-long stupor. In the calm following the harrowing events of the day, he reverted to the traumatized trances of his time as a prisoner. At the sight of her his mind pulses with energy again; he wants to ask her how she is feeling, why she isn’t sleeping, if Bran is any better, if Brienne is guarding her. The words pile until they block his throat, sitting as useless as a stone, and all he does is stare at her like a madman.

A smile hovers around her mouth, hesitant but true. She raises her hand, revealing a pair of small shears. “I thought you would like a trim.”

It breaks a dam in him, this care. Sansa closes the door and crosses to him, concern on her sweet face. He doesn’t realize he is crying until she touches trembling fingertips to his cheek and they come away wet.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he whispers.

“I know what it’s like to be a prisoner here, at the mercy of a monster, to think no one is coming.”

Pain shoots through his chest at the reminder of how much she suffered; that no one had come for her. “You shouldn’t have come,” he repeats weakly.

Sansa’s mouth twists and she turns from him sharply, disappearing behind a dressing screen in the corner and returning with a basin of water. She dips her hands and when she goes to touch him, he flinches.

Her eyes are hard now, narrow and biting and accusing, and Jon welcomes it. He could drown in this, in what he deserves.

She takes a step back and clasps her hands in front of her, one hand rubbing the other, in a gesture so obviously habitual and self-soothing that tears burn his eyes again. “Sansa,” he soothes, unable to help it.

“I thought—” Her mouth closes so rapidly she might have bit her own tongue. “I thought I understood.”

“I… I think you do.” He speaks slowly, tasting the words in his mouth. Although nothing of a true weight has been said yet, it is so strange to talk to Sansa like this after pretending for so long. Ages of mental blocks and shame over his feelings and his lies, of half-truths and avoidances and fear, of measuring his words to her.

Sansa is frozen in place, her eyes on her feet. Although self-loathing threatens to overcome him once more, he keeps that black tide at bay, determined to speak honestly to her. He owes her that much. He owes her so much more than that.

“Since I returned from Dragonstone, I haven’t been truthful with you. I tried to give… her…”

It is difficult to say her name. Sansa sighs and moves to sit at the foot of the bed. Jon looks away from her, remorse over so many things burning his throat.

“You put yourself in danger. You brought an army to save me…” He is overcome with admiration and disbelief and _guilt_. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I came for the North. She would have burned us all.”

When he speaks his voice is even more ragged, foreign to his ears. “I should have listened to you. I never should have brought her north. I put you in danger. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She is quiet, measured. “You did it to save the living.”

Jon shakes his head. “I lied to you. I hurt you.”

Her eyes are inscrutable, her lips pursed. “Yes. You could have talked to me.”

“You’re right.”

A small line forms between her brows, her eyes falling to her lap. “You told me we need to trust each other.”

“Aye. And you trusted me.” The words leave him without his consent, in a rush. “You trusted me with a fierceness that’s more than I deserve. I should have trusted you. But I was afraid. Afraid she would leave Winterfell before she defended us against the dead. Then terrified she would stay. And now…”

Now hundreds of thousands of lives were ended, and Jon was a part of the reason. He, Ned Stark’s son, the shield that guards the realms of men. Shame shakes him.

“When I was a prisoner here, I said things I didn’t mean. I understand.”

_Could_ she understand? No—whatever words she had spoken hadn’t led to death but only to her salvation, and he could never hold that against her. No, understanding is too much to ask for.

“I listened to you.” Jon wants her to know everything he yearned to tell her when he returned home with a dragon on his arm. He wants Sansa to know how much she was a part of him, even then. “I tried to be smarter. Every time I called her my queen, it was…” He struggles to find the right word. “A defense… and fear. I was so scared. Everything I did…”

Sansa’s eyes are wide. “What are you saying?”

“I never loved her.”

The blue of her eyes is too vivid, too vulnerable and hopeful—Jon looks down. He swallows. “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I should have confided in you. You were right the whole time. I will try to earn your forgiveness.”

Her chin is still in his sights, the tip of her nose—her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “I thought I would have to ask _your_ forgiveness. For telling your secret.”

_His_ forgiveness? Shock gives way to anger, red momentarily clouding his vision, before turning into a delicate tenderness. The words come swiftly, fierce and husky-low. “You gave me reason to live again.”

Sansa’s eyes widen to twin saucers, so much blue he has never seen before.

“You put direwolves on me and called me Stark,” he continues, determined to get the words out. They have been sitting in his heart for too long. “You reminded me of who I was. You supported me as King in the North when you had the better claim. You defended me when I left you, when I gave up the crown, all of it. You brought an army to save me when you swore you’d never go south again—”

_“Jon.”_ Her voice is thick with tears.

“You _never_ have to explain yourself to me. I know your heart.”

Her breath catches and Jon drags his gaze back to her eyes so he doesn’t have to look at her throat.

Sansa rises from the bed, surprising him. She lowers her hands into the shallow basin of water, and this time his eyes follow the movement. His body tightens in anticipation, with want.

Water droplets drip from her hands and land on his feet. Then her hands lift and she is blessedly touching him, running her wet hands through his beard. Something resembling peace slips over him. His eyes close. There is no relief better than her cool hands grazing his face.

“And what of your heart?”

Jon opens his mouth, but no words come. His throat is dry. With his face in her hands and his body so relaxed he feels exposed, naked. “I…”

Sansa’s gaze burns hot and he will not wait for it to dim in disappointment. He speaks before that can happen, releasing the first words that come to him.

“I was only trying to protect you.” It is an answer and an explanation and the truth and a vow. _For all nights to come._

 

* * *

 

The Dragon Pit is dry and dusty and warm. Having grown accustomed to Winterfell in winter, Sansa’s armor chafes against her skin. But she needs the protection of the dark metal and the strength of the direwolves at her throat.

“We’re here to mark an ending to the atrocities of Daenerys Targaryen’s massacre. We recognize and mourn the hundreds of thousands she killed.”

Sansa stares at her companions for a moment, gauging their reactions. She believes she knows where their loyalties lie—almost all of them gave her their men and resources as they marched down to King’s Landing. Still, nerves are high and alliances can change as they all shift into a very uncertain future.

“You are the most powerful people in Westeros and it is up to us to decide our future. But first…”

Sansa’s eyes fall on Grey Worm, who stands in the sunny middle of the Dragon Pit. He is not in chains—Sansa refused such a cruelty—but he is weaponless and surrounded.

“Grey Worm, you are on trial for your war crimes, as is Westerosi standard. Your judges are Lord Yohn Royce, Yara Greyjoy, and myself.”

Sansa looks to her right and draws strength from Jon’s quiet, steady presence, the kindness in his eyes as he watches her. 

“You are complicit in the massacre of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. The bells of surrender were rung and yet you followed your queen and murdered soldiers who laid down their swords. Do you deny it?”

“No,” Grey Worm grunts. “I followed my queen. I would do it again.”

Sansa looks to her fellow judges. “Do you find him guilty?”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.” Sansa addresses Grey Worm once more. “The sentence for such a crime is death.”

Grey Worm is bold with bravado. “Kill me and my army will kill you all. The Dothraki will raid Westeros, leave only ruin.”

“There aren’t many Dothraki left,” Sansa says calmly.

He smiles. “Then let them loose on your country. I am the only one who can control them. My queen named me Master of War.”

Grey Worm turns his head so he is no longer addressing Sansa alone. “Your people owe Queen Daenerys your lives. Without her, you would have lost to the dead army.”

Sansa waits a long, thoughtful moment. “You’re right.”

She ignores the heated looks thrown at her. “For that reason only I will give your people the option of banishment. Take your remaining soldiers and return to Essos, never to return. The Iron Fleet will escort your people across the Narrow Sea.”

With a wry laugh, Grey Worm says, “Do you think I care for my life? I want vengeance.”

Sansa’s words are cold and hard as ice. “I am giving you the option to save your people’s lives. Convince them to let go of vengeance and leave Westeros, or my army will fight them. You are a military man. You know they will all die.”

Silence reigns while indecision plays over Grey Worm’s face. Finally, he gives a sharp nod of assent.

“You accept your sentence?”

When she has his verbal confirmation, Sansa waves to the guards to escort him out of the Dragon Pit. Almost immediately Lord Glover protests. “My lady, you should have executed him. We have the men to destroy their soldiers.”

“Only a few hundred were engaged in the red keep battle,” Jon interjects. “There’s a chance we could lose.”

“We can’t take the chance,” Sansa shakes her head. “They _are_ depleted but the odds could always turn. If we lose… I won’t leave Westeros to those murderers and rapers.”

“Aye,” Jon affirms, and Sansa feels a pleasant steadiness at having his support. “Enough lives have been lost.”

A silence descends upon them and Sansa wonders how best to broach the next subject. She thinks Jon may rise to speak, but somehow she knows he won’t. It’s up to her, and she is debating the best phrasing when Davos hobbles to his feet, clutching a bandaged shoulder.

“I may not have the right to speak…” Davos looks to Sansa, who gives him a gentle nod of encouragement. “I’ve lived a long life and I must say, we have just seen the worst thirty years of wars and awful kings and queens. As you all know… Jon Snow is not Ned Stark’s bastard. He is Aegon Targaryen, legitimate son of Lyanna Stark and Aegon Targaryen.”

“Yes, I received Lord Varys’s letters,” Lord Royce interjects. “How do we know it’s true?”

Sam stands on shaky feet but speaks in a steady voice. “I confirm it. My name is Samwell Tarly. I read in a High Septon’s diary at the Citadel that he annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Ellia Martell and married him to Lyanna.”

The man to the left of Lord Glover rises. “I confirm it. I am Howland Reed. I was with Ned Stark in Dorne. I saw him leave the Tower of Joy with his sister’s babe in his arms, the babe that would become his bastard.”

Everyone’s eyes drop to their laps as they absorb the information; Sansa’s land on Jon. Except for the furrowed lines on his brow, he shows no emotion. She wonders how he feels about all this—they hadn’t properly discussed it, what with death and dragons and so much uncertainty suffocating them. With a slight pang she wonders if he’s been able to process it at all.

With his parentage confirmed, Davos, still standing, continues to be Jon’s champion. “He was named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and King in the North, and every step of the way he united people for the greater good. He isn’t afraid to sacrifice for his people.”

“He is a good man and he’d be a good king.” Sam looks at Jon. “I know you don’t want it… but would you wear the crown?”

Jon rises. “My lords,” he says, instantly capturing them all with his unique Northern brogue and his innate ability to command. “I appreciate your faith. But I have made errors that make me unfit to be King.”

“You mean, you don’t want to be king,” Sam corrects, dejected.

“No,” Jon confesses, voice still strong. This isn’t an apology. “I want to go home to Winterfell and be with my family.”

Their eyes lock and Sansa feels her face flush.

“Well, there’s no one else, is there?” Edmure Tully looks around the assembly. “No other heirs… should we choose someone?”

“Should we choose another capital too? King’s Landing is a worse ruin than Harenhaal,” Lord Reed adds.

“Nothing will change if we choose,” Lord Royce laments in a harsh voice. “Another ten years and someone else will want to be king and there will be another war.”

“My lords, there is another option.”

All eyes turn to Sansa.

“Independence. My brother, King Robb of House Stark, fought and died for it. The North will remain an independent kingdom as it was for thousands of years.”

Yara springs to her feet before the words are fully through. “The Iron Islands already have a queen. And we will keep our independence.”

“The Dornish have their king as well,” Alloryn Martell drawls, his black eyes fierce. “We have never bowed to dragons and we won’t bow now.”

An uproar rises among the remaining lords. “There’s only four left!” Edmure’s protest cuts through the din.

Jon springs to his feet and the clamor halts. “The Iron Throne has been melted down. All it ever brought was treachery and death. Seven independent kingdoms is the only way to break the wheel.”

“The seven kingdoms are vast and no king or queen, no matter how good, could serve them all well…” Sansa wants to smile; she is so close. _Robb, this is for you_. “But we know how to rule ourselves. We know how best to care for our people.”

It’s as if Jon hears her thoughts. “Should Westeros sever into their own independent kingdoms? Lords and ladies… Kings and Queens. Say Aye.”

 

* * *

The docks of King’s Landing are bustling with simultaneous departures. Grey Worm is scanning the Unsullied boarding the ship, a small smile on his face, when he feels the hot prick of a glare on his neck.

He turns slowly and sees _him—_ black hair, blue eyes. The smile fades.

Grey Worm stalks towards the man, who frowns and ducks into an alley. He pursues until Grey Worm has backed him against a wall, his arm serving as his spear, holding him in place.

The black haired man smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the force of it. Grey Worm smiles, too. He reaches for his chin and pulls.

“I knew it was you,” Gendry says. “I hoped it was you.”

Arya releases a shaky sigh as Gendry pulls her flush against him. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t mind, the way Grey Worm’s clothes sag on her body.

“You set this up?” he asks, his awe apparent.

“I took his face when I killed him. Thought it might come in handy.” Arya’s tone is stoic, a leftover from years of isolation and running and killing. She curses herself. _I am Arya Stark of Winterfell. I am not no one._ “But it was Sansa’s clever plan,” she adds in a warmer tone.

As they hold each other Arya feels dangerously untethered, so content that he is alive and well after everything that happened, so _grateful_ that he is still willing to hold her like this. She is proud of him, too, for everything he did to help. “The Scorpion, it was you?”

“A team effort,” he dismisses. “Sansa, Sam, Bran found the design…”

“But you built it,” Arya insists. Doesn’t he realize how much he did to save them all?

“And you shot it.”

Arya says nothing, the horror of the day still too near. Yes, she shot the Scorpion and felled the dragon, but her brother fell too; whether it was from the difficulty of warging into such an intelligent and challenging creature—Sansa told her all her fears and theories surrounding Bran’s powers and his limitations— or the fact that he was warged into the dragon when it died, or something else she doesn’t understand… Arya has no idea. Perhaps it was one of those Dothraki scum who hurt him, just like they hurt Sansa.

As if he senses the direction of her thoughts, Gendry’s hold on her tightens. “Don’t go,” he murmurs into her hair. “It’s dangerous.”

“Grey Worm has to command the Unsullied and Dothraki. It’s the only way they’ll accept their banishment. We can’t let them return to Westeros to seek revenge for their queen.”

He pulls back just a bit, enough to look at her. “Yara Greyjoy is sailing the ships back with the Ironborn. That should be enough.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “And what’s to stop them from killing Yara and taking the ships and turning them right around? Grey Worm _has_ to be there. They’ll listen to their commander.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“I already told you…” She doesn’t have to force the warmth into her voice this time. It pours from her to the point of aching. “You belong in Storm’s End. You deserve that life.”

“I don’t care about all that,” he protests quickly, eyes blazing.

“You should, my Lord. No… your Grace. You’re a king now.”

His finger hooks her chin, pulling a startled gasp from her, and her breath grows only more uneven as he pulls her face up to his. “That’s not me.”

Before his lips touch hers all she can see is his eyes, a better blue than all the oceans she’s sailed. She closes hers and lets herself drown.

When he finally pulls away it is only to press his forehead to hers; his hands stay put at her waist, hers do not budge from his neck. “I shouldn’t have asked you that way,” he says breathlessly. “I know you don’t want to be my lady. I don’t care if you marry me. I want to be your family. I want you to let me love you.”

“I think—” Arya’s heart feels full to bursting, and it’s impossible to feel this good, isn’t it? It’s wrong, it’s _terrifying,_ everything ends—everything ends with betrayal and blood—she pulls a ragged breath through her nose and reminds herself of everything good, that she found Jon and Sansa and Bran again, that they are safe, that the pack survived.

“I think I’d like that,” she whispers, and with a groan Gendry pulls her in for another kiss.

“Let me come with you,” Gendry murmurs against her lips, soft but firm.

She quirks a brow. “What, to protect me?”

“No, I’m not an idiot. To be with you.”

Arya drags her hand up to caress his face, a gesture so tender it blows his eyes open in surprise. “Do you think I won’t come back?”

He doesn’t need to answer. Arya presses kisses and promises to Gendry’s skin. “I promise I’ll come back. I promise. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

The sun is setting around the ship, golden fingers dragging down the darkening sky in brilliant shades of orange and violet. Sansa misses Winterfell with every drop of blood in her body, but it doesn’t have sunsets like this. _Enjoy it. You’ll be home soon._

She senses Jon before she sees him—she blushes to think how familiar she is with the weight and gait of his footsteps. When he settles beside her he begins talking without greeting or preamble; a comfortable return of the familiarity they had before he left to Dragonstone. “Bran is doing better. Sam says he’ll be awake before long.”

A small spasm hurts her chest as it always does when she thinks of Bran’s state, Bran’s sacrifice. “How long will Sam be staying in Winterfell?”

“Not long,” Jon admits. “He’s been away from Gilly for three months. They want the baby to be born at Horn Hill with his family. He might not attend the meeting in Riverrun.”

“Five kings and queens in Uncle Edmure’s home.” Sansa cannot help a laugh.

“It’s necessary.” Jon is quick to reassure but there is a smile on his face. “The Westerlands and the Reach still need rulers.”

“I’m sure many lords will be in attendance. Trade deals, negotiations, more meetings to plan…” Sansa shakes her head; these are small worries for another time. Right now her brother is unconscious and her sister is among enemies. “Did you see Arya before she left?”

Jon’s eyes dim. He nods. “I know you’re worried. She can take care of herself.”

“But it was my idea. If anything happens to her—”

“Arya killed the Night King,” Jon cuts off her worrying. “What the two of you did—you avoided another war. You saved everyone.”

Sansa feels her face heat again and she lowers her gaze to her joined hands, the fingers of one massaging the palm of the other. Jon takes one of her hands and pulls it to her side. He does not let go. Her skin burns hot where he touches it.

“The North is free because of you.” His voice radiates admiration. “Father, Robb, your mother would be proud.”

Her chin wobbles. Her eyes sting as reality sets in—the world hasn’t burned, she hasn’t lost her family. “I can’t be more grateful. You’re all alive. The North has its king back.”

“I won’t be king,” Jon says quietly. “Ned Stark’s daughter is the best queen the North could ask for.”

“Jon—”

He does not allow it. “It should have always been you. You put our people first. You’re strong and cunning and you never bend. You never gave up on the North.”

“You didn’t either,” she objects with fervor, because he has to believe it, he has to start to forgive himself.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” he mutters. “And it won’t look that way to the lords. They already hate me for bending the knee. Now they all know I’m a Targaryen…”

“You were fighting for the living, for all of us. It isn’t fair.”

He turns his body towards her, and Sansa responds in kind without thinking. They move so that they face each other rather than the sea.

“Sansa, I made mistakes,” he says. “I might have had a chance to be a good king once, but not anymore.”

Something awful grips her—is she afraid? _Of what?_ Not being able to serve her people? Taking power? Or succumbing to it, like so many others had?

“All I want is for my people to be safe,” she says, and a gentle smile curves his lips. “And for my family to be safe. To be home.”

Jon squeezes her hand. “Arya will always return. Bran will heal.”

Sansa gives voice to the question before cowardice can stop her, ignoring the jolt in her chest.

“And you?”

His face shines with sincerity, with the same ardor that possessed him when he promised to protect her, and when he asked her to trust him and pressed his lips to her forehead among the frost. _He is so beautiful,_ she thinks, not for the first time, dizzy with it. Her fingertips yearn to touch his scars, angry red and silvery white, new and old.

Jon’s hands ghost up her arms, leaving tremors in their wake. He brushes past her neck and chin until he is holding her face. His eyes are liquid black, so dark and intense she thinks she sees stars in their depths.

“I will be by your side for as long as I live.” He says it with a voice so thick with emotion he could be choking, he says it like the most noble oath.

He leans in and all she can see is him; they could be in Winterfell.

Her eyes slip closed and a startled gasp leaves her when she feels his lips on her eyelids; her tears wet his mouth and she tastes them a moment later. The sun kisses the horizon as he kisses her.

 

* * *

 

The fires in the great hall are lit, infusing the chamber with warmth. Sansa walks past the solemn, congregated lords with her chin held high and her head feeling unbearably light.

She finds Arya first. Her eyes are wet as she regards Sansa, pride and admiration and joy taking turns playing across her face. Bran is beside her, pallid but smiling peacefully. Gendry is on her other side, neighbored by Podrick and Ser Davos, all of whom incline their heads and grin as she passes.

Brienne stands closest to her destination, resplendent in Stark grey Queensgard’s armor, a smile so brilliant on her face it disarms her. Sansa tries to swallow the emotion that rises in her throat, tries to maintain her composure.

But her stomach swoops when her eyes meet Jon’s. He stands at Bran’s other side, first in the line of Lords. Ghost stands imposing and noble by him. Jon smiles softly at her as if they share a secret. He is looking at her like there is nothing more magnificent to look at.

Sansa exhales when the weight of the crown descends onto her head, lowered by her queensguard’s hands.

“All hail Sansa Stark!” Jon’s voice booms through the hall. “The Queen of the People. The Red Wolf. The Queen in the North!”

Longclaw slides against its sheath. Jon thrusts it into the air, his eyes never leaving hers, his mouth stretching into a wider smile. “Queen in the North!”

“Queen in the North!”

“Queen in the North!”

All the lords follow with their swords and their chants. Lord Royce and her cousin Robbin join too. Arya is _beaming_ , thrusting Needle into the air, and Sansa thinks her knees might give.

Her gaze returns to beloved Jon and she feels her chest expand. In that moment she can feel her father, her mother, Robb, Theon, and Rickon with her too. They don’t call her Queen in the North, they call her daughter and sister, they tell her they are proud of her, they tell her they forgive her, they tell her they love her. They tell her they will never leave her.

 

* * *

 

The expression on Brienne’s face deters many a man that walks through the training ground of Winterfell, but not Podrick. Her brows and jaw convey anger. Her mouth is pinched but twitching.

Podrick grins. He could get used to this; Brienne fighting a smile.

“Oh, wipe that smirk off your face.”

He falls into step with her. “No reason not to smile.”

“Really?”

He knows what she’s thinking of, _who_ she’s thinking of. The war in King’s Landing had ended much better than he, personally, had expected—he was alive—but many had suffered in other ways. He knew the loss Brienne struggled with, and the accompanying twisted feelings of pride and guilt. Stifling a sigh, Podrick gives her a comforting look. “It’s not true.”

“Queenslayer, they could call me. They wouldn’t be wrong.”

Her voice is gruff and matter-of-fact but Podrick is so used to her by now that she practically reeks of vulnerability. _You’re not like him,_ he wants to shout, but that would only earn him a smack upside the head and a long speech about the kind of man Jaime Lannister was.

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Podrick says in a light voice.

“No?”

“You saved your queen. You just had to kill another queen to do it.”

They are still walking side by side, so Podrick cannot see her face, but her voice tells him enough when she says, “Thank you, Ser Podrick.”

Podrick bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling—she could decide to give him that smack up the head after all.

He shivers. He still isn’t used to the cold, despite the long time he’s spent here, but spring is on the way. He thinks he could enjoy a warmer Winterfell. And if he decides to leave, there could be Storm’s End with Gendry and Davos... but no, he does not think he will leave Brienne.

He watches her stop to pull arrows from targets, the movements brisk and all business. No. He does not think he will leave her.

 

* * *

 

The small sitting room is warm from the fire, the ingested ale, and the occasional laugh. It is only the four of them tonight. Arya still can’t believe it, sometimes—that the dragon queen and her beast are dead, that she survived six months of her mission abroad, that they’re all alive and together now in Winterfell.

Sansa has pulled her chair up to Bran’s, who sits closest to the hearth. His hand is in both of hers as they converse in serious whispers. Jon seems content to watch them, a horn of ale in hand. The relaxed expression is strange to see on her broody brother’s face, but Arya is always pleased to see it. She stalks towards him until she is perched on the armrest of his plush chair.

If he is surprised to find her at his elbow, he manages not to show it. She knows he still hasn’t gotten used to her sneaking up on him, and she gets a childish pleasure out of it.

She asks him the question she meant to ask since they stood in the ruin of King’s Landing, a dead girl’s toy at their feet, and played the game of faces. “How long have you loved her?”

The realization shocked her then but feels natural now. She has long since come to accept that this love has been there for a long time, simmering beneath the surface.

“I don’t know,” Jon says— truthfully, Arya can tell. “Everything I’ve done since I was brought back has been for her.”

“Are you going to marry her?”

A moment passes. “If she’ll have me,” he answers in a voice gone suddenly hoarse. “I don’t think I’ll ever deserve her.”

“Alright, when?”

She tries to keep the impatience from her voice and fails, if the way he glances at her is any indication. “When I’ve made it up to her, when she’s ready, I’ll ask her.”

Arya huffs. Sansa kept her promise not to have a coronation until Arya returned. But would she postpone her wedding? She thinks of Gendry, waiting for her.

“And you?” Jon asks her, as if he is as good as her at reading minds. “Gendry said he’ll be King of the Stormlands.”

“I convinced him. He’ll be a good king. With help,” she smirks.

“He told me he’ll return to Storm’s End within the fortnight.”

Arya feels heat touch her cheeks. “I’ll follow,” she admits, although it was Gendry who swore he’d follow _her_ anywhere. And who knows, she might keep him to that promise. Her feet are restless, Winterfell is _home,_ so Arya does not see herself staying put in Storm’s End for long.

Jon is looking at her like he understands, like he is proud of her.

Arya smiles at her brother with all the warmth she feels for him. “I want to spend some time with my family first.”

 

* * *

 

Jon stands on the ramparts of Winterfell’s keep at the cusp of morning. It will be a busy day for him, and even more so for Sansa. She stands at his side, her face pale and sweet, her eyes brighter than the morning sun—no, he’ll never deserve her. Those eyes are fixed on a sprig of green below. The storms are lessening, the snows melting. A smile plays around her mouth.

His hand is on the stone parapet. Hers is too. Jon shifts his hand and delights when hers moves in tandem, inching closer and closer until the sides of their palms and fingers touch.

Jon relishes in her sigh when he slides his hand under hers and intertwines their fingers. The stone is too cold on her ungloved hand. A promise of spring hangs in the air but the Northern chill still reigns.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment, I want to know alllll your thoughts!
> 
> Every one of your comments was heartwarming and encouraging. I appreciate them more than you can know!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ missfaber


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